Just an Act
by Miniflip999
Summary: It was all just an act. Martin Crieff was a disguise. Sherlock Holmes had created him to hide. Rating-T
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So while I _should_ be writing Wholock like I'm supposed to, I ended up writing Cabinlock instead. Whoops. Not that it matters too much, I think? Nearly done with my other Wholock ficlet though, so I guess I'll be getting that up sometime soon. Maybe. If homework lets me take a break, that is. Anyway, I hope you all like this. Comments are appreciated and tend to motivate me to write more faster.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Cabin Pressure or Sherlock. The former belongs to John Finnemore, and the latter the BBC.**

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><p>Three long years he'd been doing this; three grueling years, he'd been a part of this airline—air<em>dot<em>, that is. It had taken him barely months to get himself into order, schooling himself to play the nervous wreck that he called Martin Crieff. It hadn't been too hard (he was a decent actor, after all, and people were so easily fooled) and it had been necessary as a disguise.

Sherlock Holmes was a master of deception, and his earlier stunt three years ago, along with his current appearance, was a testament to that. And now, three _bloody_ years after his "death", Sherlock Holmes was an unpaid captain in MJN Air, with people he had to pretend to even relatively like.

Changing himself for this role had been simple. He cut and dyed his hair, bought clothing a size larger than he actually was, slouched and bent his knees just barely (to make himself seem shorter), forced his voice into a little higher pitch, and wore an expression that looked vulnerable and frightened. Along with the slouch, he seemed unconfident. He'd entered flight school as "Martin Crieff" and took the test for his pilot's license, intentionally failing six out of seven times. Then he'd found MJN and decided it to be the perfect place to hide out. Over the course of time he played Martin, he developed the character's personality more, making him seem more convincing.

He worked for free to avoid detection. Whenever they went somewhere for a flight, it had been Mycroft to arrange it. One by one, Sherlock would take out Moriarty's men, unraveling the web that had been formed. Of course, all of this was done without arousing suspicion. And looking like an unconfident, timid ginger made it easier to seem normal.

Of course, doing this for three years got on one's nerves. Which is why, when doing the job with the van, he dropped the façade and reverted to his usual personality, giving him a break from Martin's.

But he was especially restless. Doing somewhat good deeds and pretending to worry about non-important things got boring fast, and Sherlock was pretty sure he'd gotten rid of the last of Moriarty's cohorts a few flights back. Mycroft had insisted that they wait longer, though.

But it wasn't like his coworkers were any good at being entertaining either—well, maybe with the exception of Arthur on a good day, when Douglas made snarky comments about him, but Sherlock would have rather done so himself. Too bad Martin's personality wouldn't allow it.

He needed a case. He'd done what John would have thought the right thing and stayed away from drugs (not like he could afford them though). But he was restless. He skipped out on sleeping some nights, opting to analyze people on the street if there were any. No one was really interesting though. Sometimes, he went days without eating, ignoring his catered food on flights and earning worried glances from his first officer. He'd even stopped cutting his hair, wanting it to be its original length, though he did take the time to dye it. Sherlock missed his old life dreadfully.

But it must have been luck that sent MJN to Heathrow for a cargo flight, where someone had been murdered and hidden in a hanger shortly after they had landed Gertie. Four serial murders and one note had been Christmas for Sherlock long ago. Right now, one murder was one of the best presents Sherlock could have been given, short of being able to see John again.

Sherlock had insisted on taking a look, and Douglas and Carolyn, after much persuasion on "Martin's" behalf, went with him. Arthur tagged along when they couldn't get him to stay in the airport.

In all honesty, Sherlock was hoping to see at least one familiar face at the crime scene. But it was unfortunate for him, for in place of DI Lestrade was DI Dimmock. Upon seeing the other inspector, Sherlock shrugged off Martin's personality and sauntered over, a light spring to his step. He disregarded the calls of other officers that he wasn't allowed in, due to "Danger of contaminating the evidence". Carolyn and Douglas remained behind the yellow tape, calling after Sherlock to listen to the officers and come back to stand next to them.

"Martin seems very chipper to be here," Carolyn said to Douglas, not bothering to keep her voice lowered. "Martin, get back here! You'll get in trouble!" Sherlock ignored their calls.

Dimmock turned around, raising an eyebrow when Sherlock strolled up to him, hands clasped behind his back, smug look on his face. "Excuse me, Inspector, but would you happen to know the whereabouts of Inspector Lestrade?" he asked.

The man laughed. "Inspector Lestrade? You really need to get with the times, kid. He was relieved of duty three years ago after the Holmes situation. He's gone and in his place is me. About time, too. The Yard needs someone who can solve cases without the help of a lunatic who set it all up anyway," the man spat.

Sherlock glowered at him. "For your information, _Inspector_," he sneered. "Lestrade was a better man than you'll ever be, and still is, I'm sure. What's he up to now?"

Dimmock glared. "He's made himself a private detective, he has. Gets a lot of cases, surprisingly, even though he allowed that fake to take part in so many at the Yard. The man manages to convince Dr. Watson to join him every once in a while, just to get him out of Baker Street. Poor bloke is depressed."

"Where is he living now?"

"Same place as before," the DI rolled his eyes.

Sherlock nodded. "Right, thank you for the information, Inspector, I think I'll be taking my leave now." Sherlock turned to leave, but then paused, running a calculating gaze over the dead body. "By the way," he started. "The weapon was a wrench. Weapon should be hidden in the cargo hold of the plane over there, though why you didn't search it right away is beyond my comprehension. Victim was a pilot with an attitude. Killer was an engineer. He was killed when the engineer lost sight of his actions and let rage control him, probably. There's bruising from a struggle along the forehead where the dead man was hit by the other's fist.

"Not premeditated, though the engineer had the weapon beforehand. Dried blood that flowed from the temple, so the killing blow was there, and killed him instantly. Engineer is a large man, strong of the arms and chest, seeing as the blow was strong enough to kill in one strike. The wound was administered from above, so the man is taller than the pilot."

Sherlock stopped, glancing over at the speechless DI, whose mouth was opening and closing like a fish. "See which engineers knew this man well. Good day, Inspector Dimmock. With any luck, you'll catch him. Without it, well, I suggest you consult a private detective." With that, Sherlock strolled off, substantially happier than he had been in three years.

It felt good to show someone up.

"Martin, what on _earth_ was _that_ about?" Douglas exclaimed as a deep frown set in his face. "You're not _normally _this confident, nor are you _ever_ that observant. And… did you get _taller_?"

Sherlock fixed him with an observant gaze. "No, I've always been this height. Now, I have a request. If you don't mind, Carolyn, I'll be the one driving, but I have an old friend to visit. Two, actually." He paused. "I'll be right back though. I need to go change into some other clothing."

Carolyn stared. "Martin, did your voice get deeper, or am I going off the deep end?" she asked, stopping him in his tracks. Arthur gaped at Sherlock.

"Skip, how come you were so confident up there? You're never like that!" Sherlock ignored Arthur.

"It seems Captain Crieff has been hiding his baritone voice from us for _whatever_ reason," Douglas said to no one in particular.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "We'll discuss this later. I need to change. Meet me at your car in fifteen minutes." Sherlock didn't wait for a confirmation, walking off towards Gertie. He still could remember where he'd hidden his clothing from three years ago, coat, scarf, and all. He'd go put that on, then he'd be presentable for his old friends.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews, guys! I'm so glad you all enjoy this. So for all of you, have a second chapter (which would have been posted anyway but I worked faster to get it done haha). The chapters will definitely be getting longer as the story goes on, so you'll have more to look forward to, for sure!**

**Chapter 3 is already done but will not be posted until chapter 4 is finished. You might have to wait a bit longer for it, I'm afraid, as chapter 4 hasn't been started yet. Reviews will be appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure and Sherlock both belong to their respective owners.**

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><p>"Carolyn, I don't care if it's your car. I know my way around London better than you do, so I'll be the one driving!" Sherlock argued while yanking his hands out of his coat pockets to emphasis his point. The lot of them had questioned him earlier on his change of clothing (including where he got it), but he had made a point to ignore the questions. The topic had changed to the situation regarding the car.<p>

"No! I'm certainly not letting you touch my car, even if it is only a rental one! And we're not taking a side trip to visit some 'old friend' of yours, Martin," Carolyn snapped, putting her hands on her hips. "And at what point in time, may I ask, did you learn how to navigate London?" she said in a sarcastic tone. "Either way, we are going directly to the hotel!"

Sherlock sighed. "I assure you if you let me see him, you'll have one less person to pay for tonight," he offered, staring down at her with icy eyes.

Douglas rolled his eyes while Carolyn seemed to consider the offer made. "Martin, who _are_ these people anyway?" he questioned, standing next to him, still taller, but only by a few centimeters.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock snapped. "It isn't any of your business how I know them either. But if you really want to know that bad, Douglas, they're old friends of mine."

"You never told us about any old friends," Arthur quipped. "How come?"

"Many reasons that have nothing to do with you, Arthur. Now, Carolyn, get in the passenger seat. I refuse to take 'no' for an answer." Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock got into the driver's seat, closed the door, then turned on the car. He looked at them expectantly through the window. Arthur, Carolyn, and Douglas filed into the automobile, not putting it past this new Martin to drive off without them if he wanted to.

The drive to London was a quiet one. No one questioned Sherlock on where he was going, for they knew "Martin" was in one of his moods and wouldn't answer. The silence had been threatening to continue when Sherlock interrupted it, saying "We're nearly at Baker Street now. You are all to remain in the car until I get back."

"And why is this? Does Captain Crieff not want us to embarrass him?" Douglas drawled from the back.

Sherlock snorted. "It would take more than a first officer with a god-complex to embarrass me."

He parked in front of a sandwich shop. On the door next to it were the golden "221B". Sherlock got out of the car, stopping in front of the steps leading up to the door. He wasted a good minute looking at it, fidgeting in his spot. He didn't know if John would be there or not. If he wasn't, the least he could do was greet Mrs. Hudson and ask for the whereabouts of his old companion.

Not wanting to wait any longer, Sherlock took the few paces to close the distance to the front door, and knocked. It seemed like an eternity for him until her heard the lock clicking. The door cracked open and Mrs. Hudson's face peaked out from behind it. Her eyes bugged out and her jaw dropped. Sherlock's mouth formed an apologetic smile without his consent.

She raced forward and hugged him. Sherlock hugged back. "Nice to see you again, Mrs. Hudson," he said softly.

Mrs. Hudson choked on her words and covered her mouth with her hand. "Sherlock, why did you take so long to come back? You told me 'soon', but that was three years," she said, smiling through a few stray tears.

"I came back though, didn't I? Is John in?" Sherlock asked, moving from one question to the other. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"No, dear, he's at work. He needs the money, you know. Sometimes he goes to help Greg with cases, but usually Greg comes to fetch him. To get him out of the flat, you know. He spends far too much time there alone, sulking. Gets him fresh air, it does. But no, he's at the hospital right now, not here."

Sherlock nodded, taking the time to listen to Mrs. Hudson ramble. "I'll have to stop by later then to see John. But I need to see Lestrade." Sherlock hugged her again. "Good bye, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be by tomorrow. Don't tell John about this yet."

She waved to him as he returned to the car, a bright smile on her lips. Once they had driven off and returned to the flow of traffic, Arthur spoke.

"Who was that, Skip? She seems like a very nice old lady. Kind of like a grandma," Arthur spoke with cheer, enthusiastic about seeing all of 'Martin's' friends.

"That was Mrs. Hudson, Arthur. My old landlady," he answered, frowning. She had looked much frailer than he remembered her, and she had always been a strong woman. But there, standing in the doorway embracing him, she had looked like a twig ready to snap. He couldn't help but feel guilty that it might have been his fault.

Arthur answered with an "Ah" and sounded like he was going to continue, but Douglas interrupted.

"She seemed very emotional when you showed up, don't you think? What brought on that?"

"None of your business," Sherlock snapped, tuning everyone out and returning his concentration on not crashing into the car in front of him. Everyone else was talking, but it was all muted to his ears.

Half an hour flew by. Sherlock drew the car up to the curb and parked it. He took the key out of the ignition and reclined back in the seat. He rested his elbows on the car door and the centerpiece, hands in front of his mouth, and pressed the pads of his fingers against each other. He stared at the street in front of them, not seeing it.

No one said a word.

"All of you please shut up."

Douglas and Arthur exchanged confused glances, while Carolyn scowled and said, "Martin, you are to show more respect to us! I don't know what's gotten into you, but you've been incredibly rude lately, and not only that, you haven't been acting like yourself. I demand that you explain yourself."

Sherlock turned his hawk like gaze to Carolyn, expression neutral. He lowered his hands just below his mouth and gazed at her. Carolyn stubbornly looked back, but began to grow uncomfortable under his inquisitive and emotionless eyes. Finally, he lowered his hands and let them hover just above his lap.

"Don't call me that."

Carolyn wrinkled her nose. "What?"

"What are you, deaf? Don't call me that."

Douglas cut Carolyn's reply off and instead asked in a calm voice, "Call you what, Martin?"

"Exactly that," Sherlock answered. "Don't call me Martin."

"But Skip, isn't that your name?" Arthur asked, as innocent as ever and not getting a clue. Douglas said nothing, while Carolyn nodded in agreement with Arthur's question.

"No. Now stop calling me that," Sherlock growled, unlocking the car door.

"What do we call you then, Mar—Captain," Douglas asked, cutting himself off just before completing the name, instead using Sherlock's given title.

"Come with me this time, and you can find out." With that, Sherlock opened the door and stepped out of the car. He shut it with more force than necessary, causing the car door to slam. He wasted no time in getting to the front door of another apartment building, knuckles rapping on the door. Douglas, Arthur, and Carolyn all followed him, getting out of the rental and filing behind him.

There were voices approaching the door, one distinctively male—rough and gravely—and the other female.

The front door opened, revealing Greg Lestrade, hair still dark but with a larger area of silver, thinner, and looking more tired. He held a few papers in his hand, a report from a case, Sherlock figured. Behind Lestrade was Sally Donovan, standing with her hands on her hips and looking as defiant as ever. But she was going to Lestrade to review cases Scotland Yard were taking too long on, he deduced, since Lestrade held files and Sally was in her uniform.

Sally had to cover her mouth to muffle a cry of shock upon seeing Sherlock's face. Lestrade stared with a dumbfounded expression. Sherlock cracked a lame smile. He nodded at Sally and looked Lestrade in the eye.

"Nice to see you again, Lestrade. It's been a while, hasn't it? Three years, if I'm correct. I do sincerely hope that it doesn't change anything between us, though."

Lestrade didn't answer, opting to blink, rub his eyes, and then stare some more. He clenched his teeth. Sally moved more quickly than Sherlock would have given her credit for, holding back Lestrade by the shoulders so that his fist wouldn't connect with Sherlock's face. Sherlock was sure it would have been a vicious punch. He would thank her later for keeping Lestrade from marring him, though he was sure he deserved it. A thought occurred to him. John might want to hit him as well, and there'd be no one to stop him, and he'd felt one of John's punches before—it didn't feel all that great, even though he had been the one to request it.

"I take it I'm not forgiven then," Sherlock stated plainly.

"Of course not, you daft— why would you—?" Words failed the former DI. He stopped trying to talk and took a deep breath, running a hand over his face and let out a meek "How?" before letting his hand drop. He managed a small smile for Sherlock, but it came out as more of a grimace.

"I'm glad you recognize me, Inspector," said Sherlock.

"Of course I did. Just because you dyed your hair doesn't mean I'll forget you and your irritating face. It's not exactly easy to forget you, with all the impressions you've made."

They grinned at each other, as though they had just exchanged a joke only they would understand. "I see you're faring well, despite losing your job. I'm sorry about that."

"Nah," Lestrade said with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Being a private detective might be better anyway. I can do what I want to solve the cases as long as I'm not breaking the law, but I don't have to follow the rules of the Yard anymore."

"Shame. They lost the only competent man in the entire force," Sherlock commented.

Lestrade moved aside and beckoned him inside. Sherlock walked in with elegance, followed by three confused companions. "Who're they?"

To Lestrade's question, Sherlock replied with the vague and meaningless answer, "Friends."

Lestrade snorted. "How'd you manage to get more friends? Did you bribe them to play along?"

Sherlock paused, cocking his head to the side and giving Lestrade a sly smile. "Surprisingly, no."

Lestrade laughed. "Right, well, it's good to see you again, Sherlock. It truly is." Sherlock beamed at the former DI, glad he had been forgiven, even though it hadn't been said outright. "So who're your 'friends'?"

Sherlock moved aside, making a sweeping motion with his hands towards the three almost forgotten visitors. "This is Douglas Richardson, first officer for MJN Air," he began. "This is Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, owner and manager of MJN Air, and this is her son Arthur, a steward. You'll have to excuse him, he's a bit daft."

"That's a first: you excusing someone for idiocy. Sally, someone's replaced Sherlock."

"How did the Freak manage to survive that sort of—? No, never mind, I don't want to know," Sally said instead of answering, turning around and heading back into the main room to look at one of the case files, trying to hide her gleeful expression.

"Skip, how come you're calling yourself Sherlock? You're name's Martin, isn't it, Skip?" Arthur said in a soft voice. Lestrade looked between Arthur and Sherlock, before his mouth made a small 'o' and he took a step back as to not interrupt what would happen. Sherlock pulled a face. Of course Lestrade would guess what he'd done; the other had probably seen cases like it before.

Sherlock shook his head to answer Arthur's question. "Let me introduce myself formally to all of you. I am Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. The man you knew, Martin Crieff, never existed."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Here you are, everyone! Chapter 3! After lots of work and a lot of time, Chapter 4 was finally finished. And the plot thickens... ****I am so sorry it took so long to put this up, but hey, at least I finished chapter 4 like I said I would. Chapter 5 will be started on promptly.**

**Meanwhile, I probably won't be getting much done until the end of March. My birthday is coming up on the 21st, so I'll be very busy and will not have a whole lot of time to write. ****But don't worry! I won't be abandoning this fic any time soon, especially not when I've gotten so far already. ****Besides, my intense love for both series and the Cabin Pressure fandom keep me going as well.**

**But anyway! Enough of my rambling. You probably don't even read my author's notes. |D Who does? I certainly don't read anyone else's.**

**Please, once again, let me know if anyone is OCC. It would be greatly appreciated. Also, special thanks to my beta for reading everything over.**

**Meanwhile, to clear up any arguments before they happen, my headcanon for John and Sherlock's reunion isn't that John punches him or cries (he's a soldier, he has more self control than that, you know), but instead, they go straight back into arguing with each other. And Mary's there because John deserves her. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Cabin Pressure or Sherlock. Both belong to their respective owners.**

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><p>Douglas and Carolyn stared at Sherlock. Arthur's expression fell miles. The silence was so thick one could cut it with a knife. The gentle tick of a clock's hands became louder. In the other room, Sally had stopped shuffling about, opting to listen in.<p>

Then Douglas scoffed. "Don't be _ridiculous_ Martin. You're going around pretending to be a _fake detective _who committed _suicide _three years ago? And _this_ man and woman; did _you_ put them up to this? How _low_ can you _sink_, Martin, going to such _immense_ _lengths_ to make us think you're not incompetent? To think you'd _pretend_ to not exist and then say you're _another person—_a _dead_ person, at that?" A pathetic little whimper erupted from Arthur's throat, following Douglas's miniature monologue.

Sherlock's shoulders bristled just a bit, but he calmed himself down. He couldn't allow himself to get worked up. He was counting on his original personality to keep him sane and reasonable in these moments. "I'm not lying, Douglas. Don't tell me you can't see the resemblance."

"Of course I can," Douglas growled. "But _surely _that's just _coincidence._"

Sherlock sighed. Dealing with idiots attached to a lie was always the most difficult part. "Sally, come in here, would you?"

Sally hesitated before approaching Sherlock, standing stiff and a bit nervous. "What do you want?"

Sherlock eyed her, millions of things flashing through his mind, in front of his eyes, blinking in and out of existence as his brain raced with thousands upon thousands of things to say. "You've stopped seeing Anderson, for nearly all three years I've been gone, now. You have a new boyfriend, one that treats you nice and loves you dearly, though you're still not sure whether or not it will work. You've been promoted a few times at the Yard, but you still go to Lestrade for help on cases because you don't think the officers at the Yard can solve them half as well as Lestrade. How's Anderson's marriage doing, by the way, or are you not talking to him anymore?"

Sally looked surprised. Lestrade's palm attached itself to his face and he sighed heavily. Douglas fixed Sherlock with a disbelieving look, not sure any human should be able to talk that fast, especially not Martin of all people.

"You're right about everything, as usual, Freak," Sally stated. Douglas turned to look at her, expression a mix of disbelief and horror. "I stopped talking to Anderson when Greg got sacked. Anderson had been ecstatic, but I couldn't believe it. I still go to Greg because he _can_ solve them better than anyone else at the Yard, and he's got more experience than me in the field. I do have a new boyfriend—well, not completely new. Been dating him for a bit over a year now," she shrugged. "Anderson divorced his wife. She found out he was cheating."

"And did I know any of this knowledge prior to seeing you today?"

Sally lowered her head. "No," she growled.

Sherlock turned to Douglas and Carolyn, who looked pale, the latter a bit faint. Arthur's jaw had dropped to the floor and he made no attempt to pick it up off the ground. Douglas seemed a bit overwhelmed.

Sherlock made to say something, but stopped at the sound of a file being knocked over. Everyone's attention was diverted to the fallen papers. Sherlock stepped forward, gaze sweeping the room for any sign of life. He spotted something and bent down to get a closer look.

"Lestrade, you don't have any pets, do you?"

"No, course not."

"Sally, you don't have a pet you bring here when you visit either, do you?"

"No…"

Sherlock picked a long black hair off the carpeted floor. He straightened and inspected it more closely. It was about as long as his index finger, black and tinged an oily green. He sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose. It smelled of dirt and there was a hint of chemical substances.

"No animals that could have gotten in either?" he asked.

"Of course not, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, exasperated.

Sherlock's eyes swept the room. He just noticed the paw print like shapes dotting the carpet and crouched down to look at them. They weren't large, instead more like the size of a house cat. Multiple tracks led from behind the small sofa to the table, then back again taking a different path. He straightened, taking cautious steps towards the sofa. He moved to look behind it.

A creature jumped out at him. It had scruffy, black fur and a cat's tail. But its face was disfigured, like a spider's mouth. The fangs opened and its fur stood on end. Long claws poked out from its toes. It had no eyes and its scrawny body showed its bones, all angles and sharp edges. Its skin clung to the flesh underneath it, as though it would snap off.

Sherlock stumbled back when it leaped for his face, just narrowly dodging it. Everyone else seemed to have frozen, except for Lestrade, who acted quickly.

"Catch!" the man shouted, throwing an object at Sherlock. He caught it with coordinated hands and, realizing what it was, pressed down the button and touched the creature with the end of it.

A bolt of electricity went through it and it went limp. Sherlock flipped the weapon in his hand. "Taser. Nice touch, Lestrade, though why do you keep one around?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Just in case, y'know? Emergencies, and all that."

Sherlock hummed in reply, bending down to get a closer look at the animal. Still breathing, he noted as he picked it up by the scruff.

"W-what is that, Skip?" Arthur squeaked, hiding behind Carolyn.

Sherlock turned to him and cast him a small smirk. "No idea," he answered. "It looks like a mutation of some sort," he continued, taking a look at what seemed to be a collar around the creature's neck. "Hum! I would say Baskerville has a hand in it, but I doubt it. This is something else. The government isn't careless with their productions, so this is separate. It's got an owner, no doubt, and…" Sherlock trailed off, unhooking the collar and scrutinizing it.

"It appears we're being watched," he continued, handing the mutant animal to Lestrade, who grimaced. He held it away from his body.

Sherlock fiddled with the collar and unhooked a tiny black round object. He inspected it, holding it up to his eyes and looking at it in the light from the window he stood by. "Lestrade, get your laptop," he ordered.

"Right," Lestrade answered, handing the creature off to Sally, who repeated the action done by her former superior, and held it away from herself. Lestrade shifted files around and tried to keep the mess from getting larger (and failing). He grabbed his laptop, which had been hidden under masses of paper and handed it off to Sherlock.

Douglas dared to approach Sally to look at the mutant, his face scrunching up in disgust. Sherlock sat on the sofa, opened up Lestrade's laptop, and booted it up, staring into the camera. Once the computer had finally booted up, he rerouted the signal of the camera until his face appeared onto the screen, being captured by the small lens. Someone was using an old trick, and it was working.

"Damn," he muttered, closing the laptop and setting it aside. He leaped up from his position and paced around the room. "No, no, no, Mycroft said we'd gotten them all. He said we were done and he's thorough—he's _always_ thorough," he rambled to himself, earning a concerned look from everyone.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" Sherlock froze.

"Stupid, stupid!" he hissed.

Douglas furrowed his eyebrows. "What?"

"There's still one left," he said, heading towards the door. "Lestrade, Sally, follow us in your car. We need to get back to Baker Street. I made a mistake leaving Mrs. Hudson alone," he explained without making anything clearer.

"Sherlock, tell me right now, please, what's happened?" Lestrade asked in a tone Sherlock recognized well—it was the one he would use whenever he wanted Sherlock to explain; it was the one he used when he was pretending to not know even though he probably did, but wanted to hear Sherlock say it. As much as he'd love to, though, there just wasn't enough time.

"Just do as I say, Lestrade," he snapped once they'd all filed outside. Sally still held the creature.

"What do I do with this?" she demanded, shoving the animal towards Sherlock.

Sherlock paused for a moment, thinking. His mind raced with all sorts of things to do with it, one of them being killing it and keeping it to dissect later. Then another thought came to him. He took it from Sally and set it on the ground, nudging it until it woke up. It hissed at him but was quelled by his icy glare. "Go on then," he urged it. "Go back to your owner." He shoved it with his foot. It snarled at him, but began to look (despite not having eyes) in a certain direction.

Lestrade stared at Sherlock before laughing. "You're using a method from Doctor Who? Didn't even know you knew what the show was."

Sherlock snorted and gave the animal another shove with his foot. "Go on. Lead me to master, why don't you?" It took a few steps towards the street, turning its head up to the roofs of the buildings across the road. Sherlock followed its head's movements and fixed his gaze on the location it paused at. And there he saw it.

The silhouetted figure of a man and a gun knelt atop the building, aiming for someone, but who, he wasn't sure. They didn't have the time to find out.

"Go, go! Get in the car, the lot of you! Hurry; there's no time to waste." Douglas and Carolyn stayed in their spots, while Arthur jumped and dashed to the automobile. Sally and Lestrade were making their way to Lestrade's car, but Lestrade handed off the keys to her and turned around.

"Douglas, Carolyn, get in the car!" Sherlock barked, grabbing Carolyn's hand and pulling her towards the open door. Douglas didn't move.

"I want an explanation, Mar—Sherlock."

Sherlock gave an exasperated sound from the back of his throat. "Not now! I'll explain in the car. Get in."

Douglas looked unsure. That's when Lestrade tackled the man at the same time a gunshot rang out across the area. Both men fell to the ground heavily. Lestrade rolled off Douglas and clutched his left shoulder with a stifled moan. "Bloody hell," he ground out between his teeth.

Douglas was on his feet within seconds and inspecting the wound. "Douglas, get in the car and drive!" Sherlock yelled, shoving the keys into the taller man's hands and crouching down to help Lestrade. "I'll be in the car with Lestrade, just follow us to Baker Street. Don't hesitate, move! Unless you want another one of us _shot_."

Sherlock pulled Lestrade to his feet and guided him to his car. Douglas rushed to the rental, getting in and shutting the door. Sherlock snatched the keys from Sally once he'd gotten Lestrade into the back carefully and switched on the ignition.

And they were on the move without any other incident. Sherlock was secretly thankful to Lestrade for keeping Douglas from dying, since the other three weren't supposed to be a part of this whole mess in the first place. The other side of Sherlock wanted to demand of the other man what the hell he had been thinking.

He glanced at the mirror. Lestrade had his left shoulder in a death grip, knuckles white, while he tried to stem the blood flow. "We'll get Douglas to take a look at your injury once we reach 221B," he reassured the private detective. Lestrade nodded mutely, jaw clenched tight as he tried to ignore the pain. Sherlock forced himself to pay attention to the road again.

Half an hour passed before they had reached Baker Street again. Sherlock had jumped out of the car without taking out the key and rushed to the front door, giving it a few loud and frantic knocks.

He waited as patiently as he could. He let out a sigh of relief when the door opened and Mrs. Hudson's familiar face appeared in the doorway. She was unscathed.

"Mrs. Hudson, we've had a bit of trouble. Lestrade's been hurt," he explained coolly.

"Oh dear," she managed when she saw the blood soaked sleeve of the other man's shirt. She ushered them all in. They laid Lestrade on the couch. Douglas took the space next to him to inspect the gun wound. Sally waited in the doorway. Carolyn and Arthur stood in the kitchen, the latter fidgeting. Sherlock stood next to Douglas.

"You're an idiot, Lestrade," Sherlock said.

Lestrade merely grinned. "Yeah, I know." Sherlock scowled, while Lestrade flinched when Douglas made him remove his hand from his shoulder.

Sherlock heard the front door open. He looked over his shoulder at a familiar voice. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm back." John's voice floated up the staircase. Sherlock froze up like a rabbit that had heard the predator following it.

John hobbled through the flat door with his cane, staring at all the people occupying the space. His jaw fell open and he dropped the bag he was carrying when he spotted Sherlock. "H-how…"

Sherlock approached John. "Don't doubt what you're seeing, John. I'm here."

John looked away. "No, no, I'm hallucinating. That's got to be it, because there's no way I'm seeing you standing here now. And why's your hair ginger?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm real, John. Look, I'm alive. See?" He touched John's shoulder. "And why I'm ginger is a frightfully long story. Please John, believe me," he begged. "Or do I have to prove it by insulting everyone in the room?"

He felt arms wrap around his back and a face bury into his shoulder with a shuddering sigh. He enclosed John within his own arms immediately and held him in a tight hug. "I'm sorry I had to leave like that, John," he murmured. John released him from the hug, though it felt reluctant. John's face was still dry and he showed no sign of crying any time soon.

"You idiot. You bloody idiot. You left me alone all this time without even a hint that you were alive. You bastard. You're a complete and utter bastard," John stated plainly without much malice to his words. A small smile had wormed its way onto his face, however. Sherlock returned the smile with his own tiny smirk.

John looked Sherlock over, frowning. "So, ginger," John mused. "Doesn't look too bad; certainly not that great either," he said in a dry tone.

A cough interrupted their brief yet heartfelt reunion. "I'm sorry to intrude on your tear wrenching reunion, but we do have a bleeding man on the sofa."

John's face pale went pale and he uttered a surprised "What?" while Sherlock's mouth fell into a frown. John pushed past Sherlock to kneel by the wounded Lestrade. He shooed Douglas away. "Sherlock, grab my medical bag, will you? It's by your foot."

Lestrade flashed John a bright and pained grin. "Nice of you to finally show up. How've you been?"

John ignored Lestrade's question, instead berating him. "What the bloody hell are you doing getting yourself shot, Greg? How did this happen? Oh, don't' tell me, it's because of Sherlock, isn't it?"

"How's Mary doing?" Lestrade asked.

"Greg, stop ignoring my question—"

"You should stop ignoring mine then, yeah?"

John frowned and grumbled as he got out his medical tools. "I don't have any medication, so you're going to feel this," he warned.

"It can't be worse than the damn thing currently lodged in my shoulder. Just, I don't know, distract me with something. Tell me about you and Mary," Lestrade requested.

So John did exactly that. He talked while he worked on taking the bullet out of Lestrade's flesh.

"Mary and I are getting married," he said.

Lestrade grinned through the throbbing in his shoulder. "Finally got the gall to ask her? Good man."

The conversation went on for a while, Lestrade asking questions to give his mind something to think about, and John explaining recent events of his life for him, and for Sherlock as well, who even joined in, recounting to them some of the flights he'd been on and what he had been doing during his time gone. He explained that he had been travelling around the world taking out Moriarty's men, using MJN as a hideout, while Mycroft sent them clients in order to get him to the location he needed to be in.

At that point in Sherlock's story, Carolyn interrupted. "What? You mean to tell me all our customers weren't even real customers?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. He furrowed his brows. "My brother was behind that part of the plan. It was much more discreet. Don't worry though; most of the clients were genuine in looking for transportation. Mycroft just directed them towards us depending on whether or not they were going to the same location I was required to go." Carolyn's expression became relieved upon receiving the new information.

John stood up, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Right, well, I've sewn up the wound, but it'll take some time to heal. I don't want you doing anything strenuous, doctor's orders." He beckoned to Mrs. Hudson, who hurried over. "Does Sherlock's old room have sheets on the bed? I think it'll be safer for Greg to stay here in 221B where a few of us can keep an eye on him."

John turned to everyone else in the room. Sherlock did not speak up, deciding it better to let John talk. The shorter man was the military man, after all. "None of us should go anywhere alone, if what Sherlock has told us is correct. If there is still one more man hired to kill us, we need to tread carefully. Got that?" Collective nods from the crew of MJN answered him.

Ready to disregard John's new 'rule', Sherlock stood up. "Now that that is settled, I have work to do. Just get Douglas to text me if you need anything _important_." With that statement, Sherlock disappeared through the door with a flutter of his coat.

John watched open mouthed. Lestrade's voice piped up from the couch, groggy and slurred. "I never _did_ get to ask him how he faked his own suicide."


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Hello everyone. Sorry for the long wait; I hit a bit of a block and had lots of trouble writing up chapter 5 (which is unbearably short...). Hopefully, I can make it up to you all with chapter 4 right here. I'm a bit proud of it. It's so far my longest chapter (at over 3000 words) and took me the shortest amount of time to write!**

**Thank you to everyone who has been favoriting and leaving reviews. I love you guys.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Cabin Pressure or Sherlock.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock strolled down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, using the time to take in his surroundings—they were so familiar and even though he wasn't one for nostalgia and reminiscing, he found himself taking solace in the atmosphere of Baker Street. Well, it was more like taking a few seconds to glance over street before he turned his gaze straight and walked.<p>

He pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket, flipping it open to send a text to John. Then he remembered that he didn't have John's number on his phone anymore and didn't know if the man had gotten a new one or not. It didn't matter, though. He needed to text Mycroft right now and he could always ask later for John's mobile number.

With rapid fingers and fleeting glances at the screen, he typed out a message and hit the send button of his Blackberry (he preferred his old IPhone, but Mycroft made him get a new phone).

_You missed one. Moriarty had one more here in London. You're getting a bit rusty, Mycroft. –SH_

He didn't even have to wait a minute for the reply. Mycroft must have been busy, since the reply was in the form of a text. Then again, the other had been cautious calling Sherlock lately, due to the recent events.

_You can't be serious. My men combed the entire British Isles to make sure none were endangering you and your 'friends'. –MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_Your team is useless. You should have known better. Just have men ready in case back up is needed in the form of incompetent fools. –SH_

Sherlock didn't wait for another reply and slipped the mobile back into his pocket. He fixed his coat, putting the collar up and casting his eyes downwards. He could feel eyes on his back. He knew he was being watched, but he was unsure if it was the assassin himself or another one of those genetic experiments.

He found one of the young adults from his homeless network. The poor girl couldn't believe her eyes, stuttering and failing to get out any words. Sherlock worried he was beginning to get used to the feeling of being gawked at by those he had once known, as though he were an apparition or a figment of their imaginations.

The fact they had actually believed him dead just showed that they didn't have very extensive imaginations though. No, no, he berated himself. It hadn't been their faults, after all, and he _had_ made it a bit too convincing for the mind to argue otherwise. Then again, that had been the entire point. Sherlock had been rather pleased to find out that none of the people he considered friends had believed what he had told John during that last phone call—they hadn't believed he was a fake and hadn't believed he had lied to them.

He needed to stop getting sentimental. It could potentially inhibit his ability to provide answers or a resolution.

A thought occurred to Sherlock. He stopped in his tracks. A man behind him cursed when he almost bumped into Sherlock's back. He walked around Sherlock and sent him a glare before continuing on his way. Past that, no one paid Sherlock any mind, sidestepping him instead. Sherlock barely noticed the small crowd shuffling along, nor did he care that he had somehow made it to the front of the Baker Street underground station.

Sherlock immersed himself deep in his thoughts, wracking his brain for anything that would clue him in to how to find the assassin and take him out. Well, finding the man shouldn't be a problem at all, but getting him to come out into the open would be another situation all together. It was also one that would prove to be a bit difficult. The man wouldn't have lasted this long if he wasn't competent and talented at keeping out of the government's sight.

Sherlock jolted when he was shoved aside by a rather rude gentleman hustling to get to the stairs. Sherlock glared at the back of the man's head. The stranger turned his head to glance over his shoulder at Sherlock. Then he vanished into the crowed. Sherlock was startled to find he recognized the face, though from where, he couldn't place. He must have deleted it.

He decided that this was not the time to be dallying about when he had work to do. So he supposed he'd better hop to it.

Sherlock's mobile beeped. He retrieved it from his pocket.

_I'm well aware of how useless they are, but if you're going to spend your day bothering me about how inept they are, he can be solely your problem, Sherlock. You deal with him yourself. –MH_

Sherlock smirked at the message, then deleted it. He hadn't been intending on receiving any help for this last one anyway. It was just always be better to take caution and have preparations in order in case of emergencies. He simply didn't want too many people interfering. It made room for too much stupidity.

Besides, no matter _what_ Mycroft said, Sherlock _knew_ the other would prepare a team anyway.

He put away the phone. From his other pocket, he retrieved his trusty skull. Finding a replacement for his other one had proven quite challenging; he couldn't have just _any _skull to talk to. After a few mid-night graveyard raids, he had found one suitable for his tastes, cleaned it off, and kept it in his travelling bag for flights. It still wasn't as good as the skull he'd forgotten to grab before he dashed out of his flat (_old _flat, he had to tell himself), but it would do until he got back to everyone else. It just didn't feel right to not be carrying around his old friend.

He threw it into the air a few inches, letting it flip, and caught it so it sat comfortably in his hand. It looked up at him with its hollow eye sockets. From the angle he was looking down at it, the skull seemed to wear a questioning gaze. "Well then," he grinned at it. The skull grinned back. "Let's head back, shall we?"

#

By the time he got back to the flat, it had begun to get dark—well, darker. The dimming sky was highlighted with shades of orange and red behind grey clouds. It would be raining tomorrow, Sherlock predicted.

He had been talking to his skull the entire way back. Doing so ended up with him receiving a few odd looks from passersby, but he was moreover ignored. Of course, he couldn't say the same when he stepped into the flat, where Douglas, Carolyn, and Arthur were talking with John. Upon laying eyes on Sherlock with the skull in hand, Douglas halted midway through his sentence, the blood drained out of Carolyn's face, and Arthur openly stared with a question on his lips. John furrowed his brows and looked at the mantel above the fireplace, finding that the other skull remained in its place.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at them all.

"M—_Sherlock_," Douglas began. Sherlock noted that Douglas had nearly said 'Martin'. He couldn't understand why, since it was obvious he wasn't Martin and never had been. It must have been a force of habit, Sherlock reasoned with himself. "Sherlock, are you holding a _human_ skull?"

John gave an awkward cough. "Yeah, he does that," he replied in Sherlock's stead. "Sherlock, where did you get that one?"

"I dug it up. Where else would I get it?"

John shook his head with disapproval. "You can't just go out and raid a grave for a skull, Sherlock! It's immoral."

Sherlock was genuinely confused. "In what way is it immoral? It's a dead body that has become bones and dust. I fail to see where I have gone wrong."

"You went _grave digging_?" A look of horror crossed Carolyn's features. "How long have you had that skull?"

Sherlock deliberately took a moment to think about it. "Long enough," he shrugged. "I needed something to talk to. It's not the quite same as my old one, but it was better than the other's I'd found, and I wasn't going to pass it up due to pickiness."

"Hang on a tick; you talk to skulls, Skip? Do they ever reply?" Arthur asked curiously.

"No, Arthur, they don't," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Oh," Arthur answered a bit deflated. He came up with something else to ask. "Are they good listeners?"

Sherlock nodded, which he accompanied with an eye roll. "Yes, Arthur, they are _unsurprisingly_ very good listeners. They don't talk back nor make fools of themselves. It makes it easy to hide them in baggage."

Douglas interrupted. "Wait a moment; you hid that thing in your luggage?" Douglas gestured to the skull. Sherlock sent him a pointed look.

"Of course I did. I was hardly going to talk to any of you. None of you would have served as suitable replacements for my skull," Sherlock sniffed indignantly.

"How come no one noticed it when it went through bag checks, then?" Carolyn questioned, narrowing her eyes.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "Because they're all idiots who don't _observe_, and I could very well lump the three of you into that category as well." John's expression screamed disappointment. Sherlock cocked his head, before realization hit him. "Right, not good," he muttered before returning his attention to the crew of MJN.

Carolyn was trembling with fury. "Are you calling me an _idiot_? Please tell me I heard you wrong, or so help me, you will regret your utter nonsense!"

Sherlock waved her off with an idle air to him. "No, no, don't feel bad. Believe me, almost everyone is." Carolyn sputtered. Sherlock frowned and took a moment to think. "Hum, I seem to say that to a lot of people. Shows just how true it is, don't you think?" he remarked to John.

John shook his head in mild humor.

Sherlock looked about the room, having just noticed who occupied it. "I need to talk to Lestrade. Where's is he?" he asked no one in particular, because either way he'd get an answer, and it wouldn't matter who gave it.

"He's sleeping in your old room," John answered. He stood up and prevented Sherlock from going to the mentioned location. "Oh, no you don't. You're not going to go wake him up when he needs to be getting some rest."

Sherlock made to protest, but was cut off by Douglas, who decided to add his input. "Yes, _Sherlock_, why don't you listen to the _doctor_ standing in the room? Why, I even have to _agree _with him. Your friend _does_ need to rest if he is going to heal," he drawled. Douglas was beginning to gain his usual attitude and outlook back, which pleased Sherlock. It was easier to deal with Douglas this way.

But Sherlock was used to getting what he wanted. He put on a cold countenance and with a hard tone asked, "And why not?"

John either didn't notice or didn't care. His simple and no arguments answer was, "Doctor's orders." John then crossed his arms and huffed.

Sherlock made a low noise in his throat, a mixture between a whine and a groan. But he complied with John's demand not to bother Lestrade and sat down in his chair with reluctance. He set the skull aside and pulled his legs up so he was in a curled position. Instead of acting like a twelve-year-old, he took on the air of an authority with a copious amount of power, even if sitting the way he was looked childish.

"We have much to discuss," he began, his words precise and his tone serious. "We don't have a lot of time. There's one more man out there intent on your deaths." Sherlock eyed each of the people in the room separately. He let his gaze rest on John longer than the others, though upon realizing it, he returned his attention to everyone in the group.

"Why would he want to kill us?" Douglas asked, leaning forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees.

Sherlock shrugged. "For being associated with me, of course," he put simply.

"Hey Skip—I can still call you 'Skip', right? Well, thing is, Skip, no one _really _wants us dead, right? I mean, nobody's that mean, are they?" Arthur asked with eyes big and innocent that Sherlock almost wanted to lie to him.

_Almost_.

What was unfortunate for Arthur, however, was that Sherlock was not famously regarded as one of the nicer people in the world. Besides that fact, Sherlock liked to be frank, to the point, and detail specific. Lying was necessary to get his way in situations, and in _this_ one, he did not need to get his way. Besides, being blunt with Arthur might spare him some pain later on. Arthur would have to face the cruelty of the world eventually, and who was to stop Sherlock from showing him the first glimpses, after years of pretending to actually _care_ about keeping him shielded?

Sherlock opened his mouth to start speaking, but for the second time in five minutes (a new record, Sherlock couldn't help but note), found himself interrupted, this time by Carolyn. "Arthur, why don't you go make us some tea? Dr. Watson, could you go show him where all the cups are? The stupid boy won't be able to find anything unless you show it to him." John nodded and led Arthur to the kitchen.

Carolyn lowered her voice so that Arthur wouldn't hear her, since the kitchen was right behind her. "Sherlock, if you _dare_ do anything to make Arthur change his positive outlook on the world, I will have you locked up in a crate and sent to South Africa, do I make myself clear? You know just as well as I do that if anything—and I mean _anything_—at all makes Arthur unhappy or hateful, the world may very well end."

Sherlock remained stoic. "Do you think your threats _scare_ me?" he sneered, lowering his feet to the ground and leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees and letting his fingers rest together in front of his mouth.

Carolyn jutted out her chin with an air of authority that came so naturally to her. "Of course I don't. But I assure you I am not above carrying them out."

Sherlock scowled and stood up with an abruptness that caused Carolyn to flinch a bit. He made a movement with his arms to signal that he was done with the conversation. He stalked to his desk and rummaged through the drawers. Douglas and Carolyn watched him with curiosity. Upon not finding what he was looking for, Sherlock made a noise of frustration and slammed the drawer shut.

Instead, he moved to the window and picked up a violin that looked like an antique. Sherlock plucked a few of the strings, twisted the knobs at the end, then picked up the bow. Douglas raised a brow. "Sherlock, surely this isn't the time to be playing an instrument?"

Sherlock looked purposely at Douglas and, with a sharp flick of his wrist, turned his back towards them and put the bow to the strings. A desolate melody floated from the violin. John returned to the room with tea in his hands, hearing the melancholy tune erupting from the instrument.

"Oh for goodness sake—he won't be talking for a while, so you might as well do something to entertain yourselves," John said to Carolyn and Douglas.

"And why is that?" Douglas asked.

"He's brooding. He does that sometimes. He went three days once without talking; all he did was play. Reflects his moods sometimes too," John explained. "When he's in a good mood it tends to be a bit happier than this; when he's thinking, it can vary; when he's fussy or upset, the music is just as depressing." John exhaled slowly. "It's not too hard to deal with though. It's not like what he plays is bad."

Douglas took a sip of his tea and glanced at Sherlock. He lowered the cup and sighed. "Right…"

#

Light trickled through the window as the sun made vain attempts to break through the layer of clouds blocking it. The light lingered on Sherlock and his silent violin for mere seconds before being chased away. He stood still, hawk-like gaze fixed on the street below. His eyes animatedly darted to and fro across the road, calculating, searching.

They found nothing. Sherlock moved away from the window and set the violin and its bow down. A glance at the clock told him it was eight in the morning. So he had stayed up all night then.

Douglas was in the kitchen, sitting at the table holding a newspaper and a cup of tea. John sat across from him, typing away at his laptop. Arthur still slept on the sofa. Carolyn was standing over Arthur, making to wake him up. Lestrade, Sherlock assumed, was still asleep in his old room. He was surprised to see Lestrade leaning against the wall with his good shoulder, reading over Douglas's shoulder.

Sally was nowhere to be found, but Sherlock came to the conclusion that she had been called back to the Yard (he'd forgotten that she'd even tagged along to the flat). With a sigh, Sherlock sank into his chair and let his head roll back. He closed his eyes.

He had so much to do, so many lives that depended on him—so many lives he could not lose (lives he didn't _want_ to lose). He ran everyone through his mind, making sure each was accounted for. But he'd forgotten someone; someone important whose life would be in danger—

Molly. Sherlock needed to check on Molly. Not only that, he needed to talk to her. He'd underestimated her at the beginning, but she had been so reliable for the past three years. She'd been an asset to every part of his careful plan—she'd helped him fake his death, provided him with a false body and a way to escape fate. And he'd neglected to check on her.

Sherlock bolted into a standing position. "My clothes; where are my old clothes?" he asked, turning his head to look at John. John glanced at Sherlock and pointed in the general direction of Sherlock's room. Sherlock nodded and fled to his bedroom. He went through the drawers and his closet, searching for his preferred outfit.

He soon returned to the main room dressed in a purple shirt and black pants. Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror and frowned at his overall appearance. He ruffled his hair until the orange strands came loose to hang around his face more naturally, instead of being gelled and slicked back in an attempt to look official. He nodded to his reflection and grabbed his coat.

John looked up from his newspaper. "Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Out," Sherlock replied, giving no more suggestions to his intended destination. He paused in the doorway and shrugged on his coat. "Try not to leave the flat. If you do, take someone else with you, preferably John. I'll be back in a few hours."

"Sherlock—" Douglas started, making to get out of his chair, but Sherlock had already gone down the stairs and out the door.

Arthur had become less lucid by then, having woken up more. He stood up with an abruptness that startled Carolyn. "Wait, Skip, I'll go with you!" he shouted. Before anyone could protest, Arthur had vanished from the flat as well.

They all stared at where Arthur had just been standing. Carolyn cleared her throat. "Well, this is going to be a colossal disaster."


End file.
